More Time
by petrelli heiress
Summary: All they wanted was more time. Peter/Sylar one-shot.


**More Time**

**Author's Note: Slash, Peter/Sylar (did you expect anything else?). Sexytimes, they are ahead. Not much, but they're there. This was written when my internet decided to crap out in the middle of a truly well written Kirk/Spock fic and, well, this came about. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. If I did, well...*evil cackle***

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How could words truly express this moment? The music lifted them up, not literally, maybe, but in a different, far more enjoyable way. If souls truly existed – and they must, they simply must – then maybe that was what was happening. Their souls were brushing against each other, entangling, connecting. It must be, it must.

Peter knew, deep down, that this was goodbye, felt the dull ache of it in his heart. It had been there for awhile now, ever since...but he wouldn't think about that. This moment, it was perfect and shouldn't be sullied by such thoughts.

The music played on and Peter had the funny feeling it was repeating itself, wondered if the man he was holding on to – clinging to, if he was honest with himself – was responsible for that. He smiled. Probably. He sighed happily and pressed his cheek to Sylar's shoulder, rubbed against him gently. This was perfect, he never wanted it to end.

But end it must. He felt the man holding him sigh – so soft, so sad – and the music finally trailed off into silence. Sylar pushed him away, holding him at arms length.

"This is it, isn't it," Peter said, his tone quiet and sad, as Sylar opened his mouth to say something, anything. "This is all we're going to get."

"Yes." It was a quiet admission, not unexpected, but it made Peter gasp all the same. He was shaking, shaking so hard he felt as though he might snap in two. Sylar's arms were around him in seconds, holding him firmly enough so that he eventually stopped shaking.

"This is not how it was supposed to go," he said, his voice quivering just as his body had moments ago. "We were supposed to have...more time..."

"Yeah," Sylar replied, his breath ruffling Peter's hair. "We were."

He sounded so calm, so collected, something inside Peter snapped for a moment and he pushed away, glaring, seeing things that weren't there simply to feel _something_ other than this overwhelming sadness. He couldn't take it anymore.

"You don't even care, do you," he spat, all of his anger directed towards the man in front of him, the man he loved (oh god, every time that hit him, he felt something new), the man he couldn't live without (lord knows he'd tried enough times), the man who was going to leave him. Leave him for good this time. "You give me this little send off, as if you actually _care_...but you don't, do you?" He laughed, and the noise sounded wrong in his ears. "You don't love me at all. If you did...you'd find a way around this."

Sylar just stared at him, his gaze cold. "If that's what you want to believe," he said, his tone – if that was even possible – far colder than his gaze. He turned to go.

All of the air rushed out of his lungs. He took a step forward. "No, baby, please..." He gulped in air, god, there wasn't enough. "I didn't mean it...I didn't...please, don't leave me..."

Sylar paused and Peter saw the muscles in his neck tense, then relax. "Oh, Peter..." he breathed, turning around. "You think I want this?" He ran frustrated fingers through his hair. "I mean, god, Peter, we haven't even..." He trailed off, looking anywhere but at the man in front of him.

Peter stepped forward until he could press their bodies together. He felt Sylar shudder as he did so and suppressed a smile. He wrapped his arms around the other man's neck and lifted up slightly on his toes so he could whisper softly, "Turn the music back on. One last dance."

Sylar's dark eyes scrutinised him, his fingers coming up and tracing physically the features his gaze had mentally. "One last dance, then," he whispered back, the music switching back on automatically as he wrapped his arms around Peter's waist. "But then I have to go."

Peter's grasp on his neck tightened, his fingers twining around Sylar's hair and gripping. "Stay," he whispered. "Stay with me. Just tonight. Please..." his pulse quickening as he felt Sylar's resolve shake... "...stay." And snap.

The kiss when it came was bruising, soul crushing, a forever type of kiss. Their lips crashed over each other, tongues exploring willing mouths, teeth nipping and biting, the taste of blood, sweat and saliva making everything seem so surreal somehow.

Peter felt Sylar's hands fumble at his belt and knew his own hands were in the same position on the other man's body. He growled in frustration before finally giving up on that particular conundrum and ripping the man's shirt apart with his bare hands, hands which then began exploring, caressing, wanting to feel every part of this man because, oh, if this was all he was ever going to get he was going to get the most out of every bloody moment.

Sylar pushed him to the ground – possibly because it was easier to undo his belt there? Peter, if he'd been able to, would have shrugged. Like he cared. All he could think to do – if it could really be called thinking – was try and stroke every inch of skin he could, his hands running up and down Sylar's arms, through his hair, finally finding their way back to that confounded belt which, much to his surprise, was easily taken care of this time.

He realised belatedly that he had also somehow lost his shirt but didn't really have time to wonder – not that he would – because Sylar's hands were wrapping themselves around his cock and he had time for only one last thought – it was supposed to take _longer_ – before he was coming, gasping for breath against Sylar's mouth.

He shuddered, heard Sylar murmur, "Oh, Peter, Peter," into his sweat slicked hair and, his eyes fluttering open to stare with such seriousness into Sylar's, reached down, grasping Sylar's cock in his hand and clumsily trying to do what had been done to him.

With a surprised "Oh" – which just made him look more adorable in Peter's eyes – Sylar came, eyes wild, pupils dilated, breath coming in harsh, rattling gasps.

They shuddered against each other, both feeling as though they'd just run a marathon. "Peter..." Sylar whispered, breath fluttering over Peter's mouth.

He sighed. "I just made it that much harder, didn't I?"

Sylar nodded haphazardly, as though his head was on some kind of semi-permanent bounce. "Oh, definitely." The grin plastered across his face soon matched the one on Peter's exactly. "But it was worth it."

Their mouths found each other again, their hands resuming their exploration, the music playing on repeat, violin strings and the sound of guitars accompaniment to the sounds of their lovemaking. Neither would have stopped for the world.

When Peter woke up the next morning, feeling a pleasant ache throughout his body, he half expected Sylar to have left but instead found himself still wrapped around the other man, his nose brushing against Sylar's right cheek. He felt his eyelashes graze the other man's eyelid. He sighed softly as Sylar opened his eyes and they gazed at each other.

Sylar laughed, the sound breathy and exquisite. Peter's fingernails dug in automatically, possessing. Mine, they said. "You're mine," he whispered, just in case the other man hadn't reached that conclusion.

Sylar smiled, rubbed their noses together. "Always."

"This is a love-me-then-leave-me type of situation, isn't it," Peter sighed, burying his hands in Sylar's hair, fingers twisting around long strands. "You're going to leave soon, aren't you." They weren't questions, the answers were inevitable. Peter already knew them.

"Want to stay," Sylar growled, burying his head in Peter's chest, the feel of his nose rubbing against skin making Peter moan softly, fingers gripping hair tighter. "Want to be with you forever."

Peter unclenched one of his hands from its grip and brought it to Sylar's chin, bringing his face closer, his index finger beginning to trace its way along the ridge of his nose, over his strong brow, around his full lips, burning them into his memory, wanting to remember every single detail. He smiled a little as Sylar's eyes fluttered close. "I love you."

With a half choked sob Sylar's lips crushed themselves against his, wanting contact, friction, roughness, anything to quell that dull ache in his heart that never stopped hurting. He wanted this. He hadn't always wanted it, but now he knew he couldn't live without it. All that pain he'd felt and caused, all that suffering, all that fighting, screaming, killing...it had meaning because it had brought him this. He wouldn't change a thing...except...

"I love you," he whispered, breaking the kiss. Peter gazed up at him, reached up to push away a strand of hair obscuring his vision.

...except he'd ask for more time. There was never enough time.

He moved away, his gaze skirting around Peter until it landed on his shirt. He pulled it to him and had to hide a smile at the fact that it was practically unusable, Peter had ripped it so thoroughly. Oh well, it'd have to do. He couldn't very well leave the room without _any _shirt on.

When he was finally able to meet Peter's eye they were standing, a few feet away, both now fully clothed. And, oh, how each wished that wasn't so. He flicked his wrist and the music stopped abruptly.

Peter blinked at the sudden silence. He hadn't realised the music was still going. It must have been playing all night. Now it had stopped and the only noises he could hear were the sounds of their nervous breaths.

"Peter..." Sylar whispered and suddenly he wasn't a few feet away, they were barely inches apart, and kissing as though they'd never ever stop.

Peter kept his eyes closed as he felt Sylar break the kiss and move away, heard the door open quietly then close. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and his eyes fluttered open.

He told himself he wouldn't go. He repeated this to himself again and again, told himself it would be too painful, that his heart – held together by some flimsy pieces of string and a few hundred yards of tape – would snap if he did. And yet he knew, for all of that, he wouldn't be able to stay away.

Thus it was with very little surprise that he found himself in the square where the battle –depicted in one of Matt's sporadic paintings – was meant to take place. His heart fluttered a little when he saw Sylar standing there, alone and exposed. Weren't there supposed to be other people here? Obviously not.

Sylar turned, frowning at the sudden noise. His eyes widened when he saw Peter, the frown deepening. "Peter, you're not supposed to be here." His tone radiated disapproval and just a little fear.

Peter laughed, the sound unnatural in the stillness surrounding them and yet somehow completely real. "I couldn't stay away," he said, smiling and moving closer until they were barely inches apart, just as they had been. "We'll die together." He brushed their lips together and knew he'd been right to come when he heard Sylar moan into the kiss, felt him relax into his touch.

The sound of cold laughter reached their ears and they broke apart to see Claire Bennet moving into the square from the opposite direction. "Oh, Uncle Peter," she sang mockingly. "Look how low you've sunk. Daddy would be ashamed."

She smirked as he flinched. "Since we're, like, related and all," she continued, somehow sounding bored with the whole situation. "I'll give you one last chance to leave." Her smile was bright, innocent, as she added, "But only one."

Peter didn't hesitate. There was only – _more time _– the need to stay close, to never leave Sylar's side. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, his hand grasping the other man's in a grip so tight knuckles whitened.

Claire shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The one thing that went through Sylar's mind as he coldly sliced through Claire's neck, felt the blood spurt across his shirt, his face, the _one_ thing...was that there wasn't enough time. And the one thing he felt as he collapsed beside her lifeless body and watched her head roll away was complete and utter despair.

He dragged himself over to Peter and cradled the other man's head in his lap. He grasped the knife hilt and pulled it out, the sound it made sending a raking sob through him. "Peter..." he whispered, bringing him closer so that he could wrap his arms around the other man's frame. "Please don't leave me..."

His tears ran down his cheeks and onto Peter's dark hair as the seconds turned into minutes.

"You're dripping on me," a muffled voice said. Sylar glanced down, hardly daring to hope, and found himself face to face with a grinning Peter.

"Peter..." he gasped before bringing his face close enough to shower it with light kisses, his lips eventually ending up on Peter's, seemingly having no intention of leaving anytime soon. Not that Peter was complaining.

Maybe they had more time than they'd thought.

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**The internet. I have a love/hate relationship with it. **

**D'oh. I promise that in my next one-shot I will be slightly nicer to Claire. Hopefully.**

**Please review. Virtual cookies all around. **


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